


Tell Me We're Close Enough to Touch the Sun

by TheMipstaz



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, BAMF Malia, F/F, Getting Together, Minor Allison Argent/Scott McCall, Music, Pre-Slash, ballet dancer malia, music school, rebel Malia, sorta - Freeform, violinist kira
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 17:05:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9667352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMipstaz/pseuds/TheMipstaz
Summary: “Most people don’t tend to hang out on roofs.”“You’re here,” Malia points out, raising one eyebrow.“I’m not most people,” Kira retorts without thinking.A slow smile creeps onto Malia’s face. “Good. Me neither.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](http://www.nevergooutofstiles.tumblr.com/post/152234244495/violinistkira-dancermalia-au-inspired-by-this). Title from [this Mikky Ekko song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OhGZgtPTY04).

Kira Yukimura knows she can be a _little_ uptight. It comes with the territory of being a straight A student at Peter Hale’s hellishly difficult performing arts school, a nationally-renowned violin prodigy, and a big fucking music nerd. What she’s trying to say is it’s not her fault. Technically, it’s her dad’s fault for bringing her to her first orchestra concert at the tender age of two and getting Kira absolute hooked on classical music. She could’ve given an octopus a run for its money with the way her stubborn two-year-old brain latched onto the idea of becoming a professional musician performing in front of thousands of people. Fifteen years later, and Kira still hasn’t forgotten that dream. Thus, the religious studying and interminable practicing because no one ever became the best by dicking around.

Unless that someone is Malia Tate. 

AKA the most notorious student in the school because of her no-fucks-to-give attitude. AKA the almost-orphan who lost her mom and sister in a terrible car accident that people say should have crippled her. AKA debatably the hottest girl in school but don’t tell Lydia Martin that unless you want your internal organs ripped out and sold on the black market.

There are dozens of school legends revolving around Malia. Erica Reyes swears, “If you ever actually catch her practicing, you’ll have seven years of good luck. Or get an A in Mr. Harris’ music theory class, although that might be pushing it.” And apparently, the mysterious scuff marks in the quad are from Malia’s motorcycle’s wheels when she ditched freshman orientation on a dare.

Or at least that’s what Scott McCall is in the middle of saying when Kira opens the door to her room and squeaks in mortification as she gets an eyeful of Scott’s naked ass.

“Kira!” Allison, Kira’s roommate, yanks the comforter up to cover her breasts as Scott yelps. Kira slams the door shut again. 

“Why wasn’t there a sock on the door?” Kira scrubs at her eyes, face bright red. 

“It must’ve fallen off.” Allison sounds harried like she’s scrambling around looking for clothes. “Sorry, we’ll be right out.” 

“No,” Kira grimaces down at the sad sock lying limply by the doorjamb where she didn’t notice it. The traitor. “No, it’s fine. I can study in the common area.” 

* * *

“Or maybe not,” Kira frowns as she takes in the rowdy group packed around the blaring TV. Half-eaten snacks and half-empty cups litter the room in a haphazard manner. She doesn’t even recognize half the people milling around. The laughter and chatter filling the room are cut off by a wild cheer, startling Kira.

Of course, it’s football night. No wonder Scott and Allison wanted to get down and dirty because there’s almost no chance of being overheard through too-thin walls. 

She sighs. Time for Plan B.

* * *

The roof isn’t half as windy as Kira had feared it would be. The breeze is brisk against her hot skin, but not unwelcome after the stifling common room. Gripping her bag more firmly, Kira pushes the door open completely and steps out.

Then she promptly freezes because the roof also isn’t as empty as she’d hoped it would be.

Silhouetted against the pale gray sky is a girl, all muscular limbs and flowing hair. Her dress clings to her hips, fluttering in a way that makes Kira’s mouth go dry. And then the girl starts to move.

Kira doesn’t write music often because composing doesn’t come as naturally to her as performing. But in this moment she wishes if she had a pencil and paper to capture the beauty playing out before her eyes for posterity. 

The key would be major to give the piece warmth, Kira decides, and to elevate the sound. She wants to remember how flushed her skin feels against the cool gray sky. 

Kira would have a strong baritone section to back up the tuba and create a strong, earthy base. It would ground the music and mimic the girl’s strong, confident legs as she twirls and glides across the ground.

The flutes would need at least three parts to reproduce the graceful arcs of the girl’s arms, the ripple of her dress, the wild billowing of her hair. Meanwhile, the clarinets would remain low and woody to add an undertone of freedom—the fluid jumps and nimble pirouettes and arching back.

Kira knows enough about the basics of ballet to see that the girl’s technique is  little rough around the edges. Her movements lack the diamond-cut precision Kira associates with bun-heads, but somehow that makes it more beautiful than if every twirl were flawless. Every motion looks natural and raw, passion in its most unadulterated form. For all her years studying the perfect theory of music, Kira can’t think of a single note that could convey that. 

But Kira’s mental composition ends there because the girl—Malia Tate, because of of course it’s Malia Tate—stops.

“Kira, right?” Malia asks in a tone that suggests she knows exactly who Kira is, a tone that belongs to someone who’s used to getting what she wants and what she wants is Kira. Cool sweat glistens on her forehead and neck, but Kira feels like she’s breathing harder than Malia just from watching. 

Kira nods, licking her suddenly dry lips to stammer, “Uh, sorry, I didn’t think anyone would be up here. Most people don’t tend to hang out on roofs.”

“You’re here,” Malia points out, raising one eyebrow. 

“I’m not most people,” Kira retorts without thinking. 

A slow smile creeps onto Malia’s face. “Good. Me neither.”


End file.
